


The Book of Tea

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25222336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Through the years with Sherlock, John, and tea.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 35
Kudos: 83





	The Book of Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Истории чая](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559588) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> As I promised at the end of my saga, Memento Vivere, here is the first of the new series of Postcard Tales. These are Virtual Postcards, of course, as I have not travelled for months nor will be travelling for the foreseeable future. But I hope you will enjoy these tales anyway, which will appear whenever I have one finished. Hopefully, future ones will not get away from me as this one did and be longer than a PCT should actually be! Hope you will enjoy this and I would love to hear from you!

While there is tea, there is hope.

-Pinaro, A.W.

1

The shouting and the violence were always at their worst on Friday nights.

That was because Friday was the day Henry Watson received his pay packet and that meant his first stop was at the Dog and Fiddle. Too many pints later, the man would crash in through the door of their rundown semi-detached in Barking and begin to make his family sharply aware of all the ways they let him down.

Because he was now ten and so not a little kid anymore, John knew how to make an escape through his bedroom window, shimmying down the drainpipe and landing in the dirt below. Sometimes he worried that running away like that made him a coward, leaving Mum and Harry to face the old man on their own, but, honestly, he thought that Mum should have a bit of bottle. At least, she could stop making him a dinner that frequently ended up being thrown across the room. And as for Harry, five years older, she seemed to mouth off on purpose.

All John wanted was some peace and quiet occasionally.

So, on Fridays, he slid down the pipe and went to sit by the neighbour’s garden shed. It was unexpectedly cool on this night and he had forgotten his jacket, but that was okay. Better to be cold for a while than to stay inside and hear the nasty names his father called them all.

Suddenly John realised that there were lights on inside the house he was sitting behind and then he remembered that several weeks ago the estate agent’s sign had disappeared from the front garden. Clearly, someone had moved in while he was at school. With luck, the new neighbours might have a boy in the family and maybe he could become a friend. 

John let himself think about that for a time, getting a bit excited by the idea. Although he felt as if he were a pleasant person, for some reason making friends had never been easy for him. Harry, who was always surrounded by a small crowd of people who seemed to like her, had once laughed and said “All your friends hate you.”

But this boy, if he existed, might be different. He might actually like John.

John was thinking so hard about the possibility of that unexpected friend, that he did not realise someone had approached his hiding place until the voice broke into his reverie. “When i saw you from the window, I thought perhaps my new garden came with a gnome.”

The stranger was not a boy. It was an old man in a well-worn cardigan, smoking a pipe. John frowned at him. “Because I’m short?” he asked crossly.

“Because you were so still,” the man corrected softly. Then he held out his free hand. “Jules Heath,” he said, as if John were grown.

After a moment, John lifted his own hand and they shook. “John Watson.”

“Why are you sitting out here in the cold?”

Before John could reply, they both heard the shouting, followed by the crash of china hitting the wall.

“Ah,” Mr Heath murmured. Then he turned brisk. “I was about to put the kettle on. Would you like a cuppa?”

John blinked. Mum only ever let him have a cup that was mostly milk and sugar, with only a bit of tea and that only when he was feeling poorly. “Real tea?”

The msn smiled. “I only use P.G. Tips. The realist tea there is.”

After a moment, John nodded and followed him into a bright and cheerful yellow kitchen. He was pointed to a chair at the small table and sat to watch Mr Heath make tea and take a package of digestives from the cupboard. When the cup of tea was sitting in front of him, John followed the man’s lead, adding just a dash of milk and one sugar. Then he took a small, tentative sip. “Oh, this is good,” he said. It tasted exactly like tea should, he thought.

“Glad you approve.”

John nibbled on a digestive. “Do you have a son?”

“Sadly, no. Why do you ask?”

“I thought he might be a friend, if you had one.”

“Oh, I see.”

They drank tea and ate digestives, both pretending not to hear the muffled sounds coming from next door.

John had countless cups of P.G. Tips with Mr Heath over the years. Even after the divorce a year later, when the family or what was left of it, had to move to a cheaper flat, every week he caught a bus and went back to the cheerful yellow kitchen. Mr Heath died while John was at uni and the money he left in his will helped John pay his way until he signed up for the army.

*

He had a new suit. His first real suit, in fact, for his eighth birthday, and he liked it. A lot. Well, except for the tie. Mummy had frowned when he refused to wear the tie. “At school, you won’t have a choice,” she warned.

Sherlock only hummed in response, busy examining his image in the mirror. The tailor had done a very adequate job; the black jacket and trousers fit perfectly. His refusal of a boring white shirt had been correct, because the deep green suited him.

Mummy just sighed and made an effort to smooth his curls at least a bit. “Are you sure that you’re going to be all right on your own?” It was not the first time she had asked that question.

Sherlock stepped out of her reach. “I’ll be fine,” he said impatiently. He picked up the file folder. “Is the car here?”

It was and a few minutes later he was on his way. The driver knew the Holmes family well and so made no effort towards idle conversation. Sherlock thumbed through the pages of his research paper, not feeling nervous, of course, but just wanting to remind himself of all the work he had done.

Once they had arrived at Fortnum and Mason’s, the driver walked him inside and left him to the care of one of the liveried attendants whose task it was to deliver him to the Tea Room. The hostess there smiled pleasantly and showed him to a table for two in the corner. “I will send your brother over when he arrives,” she said.

This had all been Mycroft’s idea, of course. “Time you become civilised,” he said archly. “To act like a gentleman instead of roaming the woods like a wild child. Therefore, I will treat you to tea at Fortnum’s for your birthday. Dress appropriately and let me know if you have accomplished anything of worth in your studies.” Sometimes it seemed as if Mycroft were forty and a stuffy government minion instead of just a schoolboy.

So now here he sat, gazing around at the elegant room, wondering how the distinctive blue-green colour got the name of Eau de Nil, and waiting for Mycroft, the pompous arse, to show up from Eton. But when his restless eyes landed on the entrance, it was not his brother he saw approaching the table.

Daddy never cared much about what he wore. Most often, he dressed more like a slightly down-at-his-heels gentleman farmer than the absent-minded professor of Icelandic literature that he was. [Someday Sherlock intended to ask him why that particular subject.] Today, however, it was clear that he had made an effort, putting on his best brown suit and a crisp white shirt. Sherlock was reminded of why he, more often than not, found Daddy quite acceptable when he saw that he also was not wearing a tie.

He reached the table and took the other chair. “You look very dapper,” he said with an effort at cheerfulness.

“Mycroft isn’t coming?” Sherlock said softly.

Daddy shook his head. “He is very sorry, but he has an important examination tomorrow and really felt as if he needed to revise.”

“Ha. He never needs to revise,” Sherlock muttered.

“But it’s lucky for me, right? I get to share a lovely tea with my favourite son.” It was an old family joke that whichever son he was talking to was his favourite.

Sherlock just frowned.

Daddy let the waitress know that they were ready to eat and very quickly the three-tiered server was set on the table. Sandwiches [Rare Breed Hen’s Egg Mayonnaise with English Cress, Cucumber with Mint Cream Cheese, Norfolk Cured Ham with English Mustard, but no salmon because neither of them cared for it], fruit and plain scones with clotted cream, strawberry preserve and lemon curd, and a selection of patisserie. The waiter poured them each a cup of F&M Royal Blend and left them to it.

Sherlock picked up a ham sandwich and took a tiny bite. “I brought my paper,” he said, gesturing towards the folder. “Stupid Mycroft told me to write a paper.” He took a sip of the tea, enjoying the slightly floral, almost honey-like flavour.

“Lovely tea, isn’t it?” Daddy was selecting two more sandwiches. “Read your paper to me,” he suggested.

After a moment, Sherlock ate an egg mayonnaise sandwich and then picked   
up the folder.

Over the next hour, Daddy and he finished the pot of tea and ate sandwiches as he read his paper, _Methods of Stabilising Lithium to Prevent Its Corrosion on Contact with Oxygen._

Daddy listened politely until the end. “Very good, Sherlock, although I did not understand some of it,” he said. 

Well, it was not Icelandic literature, Sherlock thought, but did not say, because he did not want to hurt Daddy’s feelings.

“Can I ask why you chose a chemistry topic?”

Sherlock paused in his spreading of clotted cream onto a scone and glanced sidewise at his father. Then he smirked. “Because Mycroft knows nothing about chemistry,” he replied.

After a moment, Daddy began to laugh. Then he ordered another pot of tea.

All in all, Sherlock decided, not a bad birthday.

**

2

The bloody bus was late again.

And it was raining. John huddled under the too-small shelter with one of the nurses from the sanitarium and the wife of one of the other patients, who decided that now was the perfect time to rail against her life in general and the staff of the sanitarium in particular. The nurse, a toughened woman nearing retirement, just kept reading her slightly soggy Daily Mail. John tried to ignore both the cold rain dripping down his neck into his collar and his watch because he was sure to be late for work. Again.

This was not Mum’s first stay here. The very first time was soon after the divorce, when she had some kind of break from reality and went walkabout for two days. In her nightgown. Now, four years later, it had become a familiar routine. John came twice a week. Harry was less diligent.

But the bus service was a disaster and although Mr Yan was always kind about it, John felt guilty every time he turned up late for his evening duties at the corner shop. The wage was very little, but it helped and the hours didn’t interfere with school.

Finally, finally, the old bus rattled up and John spent the next twenty-five minutes trying to revise for the biology exam he had the next day.

As expected, Mr Yan was very understanding and even asked after Mum.

Maybe it was that kindness or maybe it was the fact that it had been a bad day for Mum, with her words thick and slurred by the meds. It could have been just his damp socks or the knowledge that since Harry’s benefit cheque would have arrived today, he would arrive home to find her passed out on the settee. And that was the best option. Whatever it was that crashed down on him, it happened when he was in the rear corner of the shop, refurbishing the biscuit shelf. Suddenly, John realised that tears were coursing down his face. That was such a surprise that he gasped and then began to cry in earnest.

It only took a moment before Mr Yan appeared. Without saying a word, he herded John into the back room where he kept a small kitchen with a table. “Sit,” he ordered and John sat. “So sorry,” he said in a raspy voice. “I’m fine, really, I’ll just get back—“

“Hush,” Mr Yan said, putting the kettle on.

John hushed and stayed at the table. It was only a few minutes before Mr Yan brought an odd looking teapot to the table. When he saw John looking at it, the elderly man said, “This is unglazed purple clay from China. It improves the taste of the tea.”

“Even P.G. Tips?” John asked with a faint, still slightly watery smile.

“No P.G. Tips tonight.” Mr Yan reached into a nearby canister and took out a handful of pellets to show him. “Gunpowder tea,” he said.

John blinked at him.

“Will you try?”

“Sure,” John said. Mr Yan poured and John took a careful sip. It tasted smokey and peppery, so different from what he was used to. After a moment, he took another swallow. “This makes me want to travel to strange places,” he said; then he felt a little silly.

But Mr Yan just smiled. “That is a fine dream.”

John found that he was really enjoying the gunpowder tea. “My real dream is to be a doctor,” he found himself saying. No one else knew that, except for Mr Heath.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then the bell over the front door signalled that a customer had entered the store. Mr Yan left to deal with that. John knew that he had to return to the biscuit shelf, but he took another minute to finish the tea.

Later, he would walk through the darkness to the flat, ignore his drunken sister, crawl into his bed and spend most of the night reading the advanced biology book chapter on Cell Differentiation, Cell Dedifferentiation and Reprogramming of Differentiated Cells.

But first: HobNobs and Garibaldis.

*

Sherlock had never been to Brighton before.

It was just not the kind of place the Holmes family ever visited for a holiday. They leant more toward the French village where the Vernets still lived and where they were happy to entertain the English side of the family. Or they went to Iceland so Daddy could conduct research while the rest of them wandered amongst the geysers, volcanos, hot springs and lava fields. A few times they traipsed off to America, when Mummy could be lured out of her motherhood induced retirement to speak at one conference or another.

But Brighton? No.

Sherlock did not think that it was entirely to avoid the family black sheep that they shunned the seaside town. Frankly, he had always thought that _he_ was the Holmes black sheep or at least destined to be. But that was before he heard about Uncle Rudy.

Great-Aunt Millicent Vernet was a woman with a past, but that past was so far behind her that she was now only considered a quirky old woman with a taste for too-sweet sherry. At the most recent family gathering in France, some wedding or funeral or something of the sort, Sherlock found himself next to her on the sofa. “Tell me,” she said suddenly, “do you ever see Rudy?”

Sherlock frowned at her. “Who?”

“Your Uncle Rudy.” At his blank expression, she sighed and continued. “Well, he is not actually your uncle, of course. A second-cousin, I believe, but such designations are rather ridiculous, aren’t they? Since you live in London, I thought perhaps you might have news of him.”

Unusually, Sherlock decided to speak the absolute truth. “I have never heard of this Rudy person, no matter what relationship he might or might not have to me.”

For just a moment, Madame Vernet looked startled, then she laughed. “Oh, gracious, I would have thought all that old business had faded away by now.” She leant closer. “Rudy is the black sheep of the family and was never spoken of.”

He learned no more then, because someone interrupted their conversation and soon after, Mummy and Daddy announced that they were ready to leave.

But while his curiosity went unsatisfied that day, luckily his classes at Eton were so unchallenging as to leave him a great deal of free time and it took very little effort online to uncover the existence of one Rudolph Erskine Holmes. The name was a bit of a surprise, as he assumed that a purported ‘black sheep’ would have been a Vernet and not a Holmes.

At any rate, once he knew that Rudy existed, nothing would do but to meet him.

It would have been polite to ring first or at the least send a note, but that sounded dull. More interesting to just show up unannounced. He hoped so, anyway.

The Edwardian building was in a good position, looking down at the water, just far enough from the hurly-burly of the Lanes. There were only four flats, with Holmes, R. being in 2A. Pushing aside a sudden nervousness, he rang the bell.

It was several long moments before someone answered. “Yes?” The voice sounded...quite normal, although Sherlock had no idea what he might have been expecting.

“Hello,” he said firmly. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I would like to talk with you.”

The silence went on for so long that he thought perhaps the connection had been severed. But then the lock on the door clicked open, although the man did not speak. Sherlock went into the foyer and climbed the winding staircase. The door to 2A was still closed, so he knocked once, firmly.

“Good lord, you’re a child,” the man who opened the door said, clearly surprised.

“I am sixteen,” Sherlock replied indignantly.

He studied the man in front of him carefully. 

Age-wise, he could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His hair, with curls of a length that Sherlock envied, was silver, but it almost seemed like a fashion choice rather than a sign of ageing. His thin face was mostly unlined, save for a few around the green eyes that indicated a certain inclination towards humour. Uncle Rudy was tall and thin, in the Holmes manner.

He was wearing a quilted, gold silk dressing gown and soft leather slippers.

Sherlock was suddenly aware that he was being examined in return.

“Sherlock,” Rudy murmured. “You must be Maggie and Siger’s son.”

They just looked at one another for a moment, then Rudy stepped aside with a gesture. “You might as well come in. Otherwise the neighbours might gossip.”

“Most people do little else,” Sherlock muttered as he walked into a small foyer and from there into the strangest room he had ever seen. The sitting room, apparently. The walls were painted a laurel green that had been marbled over in a dark shade, although very little of the wall’s surface was actually visible. There was art hung everywhere. Large paintings in gold frames, small drawings framed in wood. Religious icons. A shadow box filled with cameos. Crucifixes. Sketches, some of young men and some of dogs.

The rest of the room was equally cluttered.

A long, green velvet divan. Half a dozen chairs, none of which matched. Tables, the tops of which were filled with...things. Figurines. Souvenir ash trays. Books. Pipes. Old letters tied up with ribbon. He could count at least four different rugs layered on the floor. The fireplace was decorated with painted tiles and the wooden mantel held a collection of perfume bottles.

Rudy did not seem offended by the examination of his sitting room, only vaguely bemused. “Have a seat,” he said finally, gesturing vaguely towards the chairs.

Sherlock chose one and sat.

Rudy dropped elegantly onto the divan. “So, Sherlock Holmes, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“I wanted to meet the family black sheep,” Sherlock said bluntly.

Rudy laughed. “How did Maggie and Siger ever manage to have such a delightful spawn?”

Since he had no answer to that, Sherlock said nothing.

After a moment, Rudy stood again. “I think we need some tea. Make yourself comfortable.” 

Alone in the room, Sherlock picked up a small photograph album from the table next to his chair. Most of the pictures inside were of a younger Rudy, on what appeared to be a Grand Tour long after that particular tradition had passed. But he certainly hit all the important cities of Europe. Each city showed him in the company of a different young man.

Briefly, Sherlock wondered what it would be like to travel the world on his own. He would do it without the company of one vacuous companion after the other, of course.

He heard the sound of returning footsteps and quickly set the album back in its place.

Rudy came back into the room, carrying a silver tray which held a teapot, cups, saucers. He put the tray down on a larger table by the divan and gestured for Sherlock to pull his chair closer. When he poured the tea, it was bright green in colour and had a strong grassy scent.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked doubtfully.

“Sencha. Japanese,” Rudy said.

He took a sip. It tasted just like it smelled. He didn’t mind it, actually. “Are you the black sheep because you’re gay?” he asked abruptly.

Rudy paused, the cup halfway to his lips. . “Not precisely,” he answered slowly. “More because of the way I chose to be gay.” His lips twitched before he finally swallowed some tea.

Sherlock thought he understood. 

“Although I will say that your parents were not really a part of the chorus of disapproval.”

“They wouldn’t be.” For all the faults his parents had, small mindedness was not one of them.

“And what about you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock wanted to avoid answering, but the man just kept watching him. “People simply disapprove of the way I choose to be me,” he finally said. He finished his tea.

Rudy was quiet for a moment. “Will you take some advice from an old black sheep?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Keep being you. It will not always be easy and sometimes it will fuck you up completely. But if you stay true to yourself, one day it will all come together.”  
He stared at him appraisingly. “One day, if you’re lucky, you might even meet someone who approves of the way Sherlock Holmes chooses to be himself.”

That seemed unlikely, but Sherlock didn’t argue the point. Instead, he looked at the clock hanging over the fireplace, “i have to get back to Eton,” he said, standing.

“I’m pleased to have met you.” Rudy seemed sincere about that.

Sherlock walked to the door and then paused. “Are you happy?” he asked, not even knowing where the question came from.

Rudy smiled at him. “Sometimes.”

Sometimes.

There was one more question he wanted to ask, but it was probably rude. Still, when had that ever stopped him? “Did you ever meet the person who understood?”

“I did. We had ten lovely years together.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but then he looked at Rudy’s face and said nothing except goodbye.

He just made the train before the doors closed.

**

3

One residence hall was pretty much the same as another, he’d found.

Which was probably the reason that he woke up not entirely sure where he was. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Clearly, he was in a residence hall bedroom, which hall was insignificant, but he was vague as to _whose_ room it actually was. Emily? Essie?

He rolled over in the narrow bed.

A thin blonde girl clad in an over-sized teeshirt and maybe panties, was standing at the desk, watching an electric kettle getting close to the boil. Hanging on the wall he saw a sign in pink glitter. Jennie. Oh, right. “Morning, Jennie,” he said, his voice sleep and hangover roughened.

She glanced at him and John wondered if she were wishing for a pink glittery sign over his head. “Tea?” she offered indifferently.

“Please,” he said. Under the thin blanket, he found his boxers and tugged them on. it was at moments like this that the etiquette of such encounters sometimes confused him. She—Jennie—was only half-dressed, so should he just drink tea in his boxers? And socks? Damn, he realised suddenly, he hadn’t even taken his socks off the night before. That was so low-class. 

She picked up a box of Yorkshire Tea bags.

Her blatant lack of interest in him made a quick getaway sound pretty appealing, so John grabbed his jeans from the floor and put them on. His ancient Dr Who teeshirt was there, too, so he pulled that on as well and then finally slid both feet into his battered Doc Martens. By then, the kettle had boiled and Jennie had poured the water into two pink mugs. She took the only chair and he sat on the corner of the desk.

They sat in silence as the tea brewed as much as it was going to.

“Thanks,” he said, before finally taking a careful sip. The faint lemon and orange flavour of the Yorkshire Tea was always improved by a splash of milk, John thought, but he didn’t ask for any. Instead, he surveyed the textbooks scattered across the desk. “Economics, huh?” he asked.

“Yes.” Jennie was staring into her cup. “You?”

“Pre-med.”

It was a relief that she was clearly not interested in discussing any future evenings spent together. John finished his tea, mulling over the idea that he really needed to stop acting like some first year idiot away from home for the first time. He was only months away from being in medical school. Past time to stop going to crowded, noisy room parties, where the smell of pot hung thickly in the air, drinking too much and ending up in the bed of some girl whose name he would forget as soon as he walked out the door.

He set the cup down on the desk and stood. “Well, see you around, I guess,”he said.

“Maybe,” she said, picking up _Economics of Monetary Union_ by De Grauwe.

When he hit the pavement and headed for his own residence hall, John breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes the girls were clingy and that was always difficult. Maybe, just maybe, his reputation was sufficiently established as a cheerful Lothario and he could now relax a bit and quit trying to prove himself.

After all, he had exams coming up and preparations to make for his move to London. He was going to be a doctor.

*

The invitation was waiting in his room, clearly hand-delivered as it bore no postage.

Both the expensive envelope from Mount Street Printer and the careful script in fine black ink spoke loudly of the sender. Even the aggravating designation _W.S.S. Holmes, King’s College, Cambridge_ screamed that the correspondence was from his annoying prig of a brother.

Sherlock made no move to open the envelope. Instead, he removed his jacket, toed off his shoes, pulled on his dressing gown. Then he flicked on the electric kettle and whilst it came to the boil, he checked on the mould experiment behind the bookcase. Finally, he made a cup of the Earl Grey Mummy had sent him and sat at the desk. Ignoring the ridiculous silver letter opener Mycroft had given him last Christmas [well, except to smile at the memory of the time Victor had used it to divide the cocaine into two perfect lines] he ripped open the costly envelope.

It was probably significant that clearly Mycroft had penned the invitation himself, rather than passing the task off to a minion. His prissy, flawless handwriting was unmistakable and irritating. Sherlock took a careful swallow of the tea, thinking that only a pompous git would write a note like this instead of just sending an email.

Finally, after ignoring it for a few more moments, he decided to just read the bloody message.

_Sherlock,_

_As Mummy says she has informed you, I am expecting you on Tuesday at 14:00. The time was chosen deliberately, falling between luncheon and teatime, so you do not suspect that I am merely attempting to get you to consume a meal. Mummy worries that you are too thin._

_If you fail to turn up on the appointed day and time, I will have to notify her and you know that she will fret._

_Until Tuesday._

_-Mycroft_

Sherlock tossed the note down onto the desk and finished his tea.

One finger rubbed absently at the vein in his arm, wondering when Victor would turn up.

Just to be as annoying as possible, Sherlock stood outside Mycroft’s front door and waited until the exact moment to clang the lion’s head knocker.

Every time he came here, he expected to have the door opened by some idiot dressed in a butler’s outfit. But not yet, apparently, because it was Mycroft himself who opened the door. Not dressed as a butler. “Right on time,” he said.

“Sooner started, sooner done,” Sherlock replied, having no idea where he had ever heard the ridiculous phrase. Some nanny or other, he supposed.

He followed Mycroft into the sitting room and when he saw what was waiting on the small table in front of the fireplace, glared at him.

His brother held up a placating hand. “This is not afternoon tea” he said. “It is merely a pot of tea. Lubrication for a conversation.”

Sherlock sneered. “Is that how you bend the world’s diplomats to your will? Lubrication?”

“Sit down,” Mycroft snapped. “Eat a biscuit.”

Sherlock sat in one of the leather chairs and after a moment picked up a chocolate digestive.

“You have missed several lectures of late,” Mycroft said.

“Only the boring ones.”

“You find them all boring.”

Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft poured tea into two fragile-looking china cups and handed one to Sherlock.

He sniffed the heavy, dark brew. “What the hell is this?”

Mycroft took a slow, careful sip. “It is called Narcissus Wuyi Oolong.”

Sherlock snorted. “How appropriate.” He could smell an almost honey-like scent, so decided to take a sip. Disappointingly, it was actually quite lovely. Not that he would say so, of course.

Mycroft considered the biscuit plate. “The tea is not especially rare, but it ages delightfully. Not long ago, a box from the 1960s sold for nearly £150,000 at auction.” He finally picked up a plain digestive.

There was no conversation for several moments.

“You have an acquaintance about whom I have some concerns,” Mycroft said finally.

“Mind your own business,” Sherlock said mildly.

“Trevor has a certain reputation.”

Sherlock kept his finger from straying to his arm, to the spot that was slightly sore from his minor miscalculation the previous night. “Actually, so do I,” he pointed out.

“What is your relationship with Victor Trevor?” Mycroft asked sharply.

“We’re not shagging, if that is what you think,” Sherlock replied, just for the pleasure of watching Mycroft’s face. He did not add that perhaps, sometimes, he thought about it. But Trevor was firmly committed to his fondness for female companionship.

“So you imagine he is a friend.” The disdain was thick in Mycroft’s voice.

Sherlock’s short laugh was entirely devoid of humour. “I gave up my imaginary friend when I was seven,” he pointed out.

“Just be careful,” Mycroft finally said.

They finished the tea and Sherlock stood. “So now you can report to Mummy that I am alive and well.”

Mycroft studied his face carefully. It almost seemed as if he did not like something he saw, but then decided that he would not speak of it yet. Months later, the both of them would wonder what might have happened if he had done so.

They walked to the door. “I’m driving down to see them at the weekend,” Mycroft said. “If you would like to come along.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said breezily. “I have a previous engagement.”

Mycroft only hummed sceptically and shut the door.

Sherlock started walking towards the underground station, then, instead, raised his arm for a cab. He did actually have plans for the weekend. Victor had invited him to the Trevor country home. He wanted to show off Sherlock’s special talent for deduction to his father.

He also promised some very nice cocaine. Sherlock’s arm twitched again as he ordered the cab to King’s Cross for his train back to Cambridge.

**

4

John once dated a woman named Bethany, who was reading philosophy. 

She was tall and willowy and had a mess of red hair that tumbled over her shoulders, as well as a rapier wit. Which he sometimes thought was aimed at him in a way that felt a bit rude when coming from someone he was sleeping with. Still, the sex was good and he had no illusions that a philosopher was someone he would end up spending the rest of his life with, so it was fine.

Occasionally he would browse her textbooks because John liked to think that he was always trying to improve his mind. Most of what he read meant nothing to him at all, but at least he was taking an interest. Frankly, he never thought that anything he read in those thick tomes would remain struck in his head.

That was proven so very wrong within twenty-four hours of arriving at the hospital camp in Afghanistan.

He felt more than a bit out of place, in his brand new uniform and with what he feared was a bright-eyed expression. The camp was louder than he had anticipated it would be, with a mix of languages and the constant background hum of generators. But he was greeted with friendly words and perhaps a little relief. He was given a brief tour by a young man from Manchester and then left in his quarters to unpack and settle in.

Those tasks were barely begun when Britten, who’d given him the tour, returned. “Sir,” he said rather breathlessly, “sorry, but the Major sent me to fetch you. Incoming wounded from a skirmish and they need you.”

The word _skirmish_ was interesting, John decided.

It sounded almost insignificant to him in the moment, but then, as the wounded began to arrive, it seemed to grossly understate the situation. John was no stranger to crisis medicine, not after spending time at Bart’s A&E and seeing car crash victims, stabbing victims, and on one dreadful occasion, the casualties from a terrorist bomb. Still, for the first little while, as the bloodied soldiers arrived in a constant stream, he felt unsure of his own abilities. 

But when he stood over the young man, more a boy really, with a dreadful head wound John Watson, the skilled surgeon, appeared and took charge, barking orders at the nurse and reaching for the correct instruments automatically. As he worked, the words of another of the injured reached his ears from nearby.

_We got the bastards. We beat them._

It was as John was working to extract shrapnel from the skull of his patient that he remembered those words from one of Bethany’s philosophy textbooks.

John Paul Sartre, he thought, surprised that the name came to him so quickly.

_Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat._

His first lesson learned.

John didn’t mind working with the Americans on those occasions when he was required to liaise with them. They were efficient, had what supplies were needed and, most importantly, tended to deal with their grisly duties with a certain black humour which appealed to him.

There was only one downside to working alongside the Americans, which he realised almost immediately. They had finished a long shift, he and the   
petite blonde doctor from Boston, a difficult shift, and she lead him to the mess tent. “How about a cup of tea?” she suggested far too cheerfully. “You being English, after all.”

“Some tea would be delightful,” he said in relief.

It was slightly less delightful when he received a cup filled with water best described as lukewarm, with a teabag still in its wrapper. He followed Captain Abigail McQueen to a table, then extracted the Lipton teabag and dropped it into the mug. It floated dismally on top, so he poked at it with a spoon. To delay the inevitable, he ate the cheese sandwich Abigail had insisted he needed.

Finally, though, he stirred one spoonful of sugar into the beige liquid and took a sip.

He had been promised tea, but then it felt as if the drink had spit in his sad, homesick and weary face, laughing at his disappointment.

John decided that he was too damned tired to get so philosophical, despite his earlier thoughts of Sartre. He drank the sweet, almost warm liquid and listened to Abigail talk about...something...baseball, maybe.

He smiled and nodded in all the right places.

*

Afterwards, it was always the smells that he remembered best.

Rotting garbage. Unwashed human flesh. Furtive sex. Lingering clouds of pot smoke. The slightly floral and vaguely metallic scent of cocaine. Cheap fish and chips. And MacDonald’s cheeseburgers.

His own room, at least the one he thought of as his, was at the very top of the ramshackle Victorian house in Lambeth, tucked away in the eaves. That was the advantage of it, because most junkies did not want to labour all the way to the top of the building for their fix, which meant that he was alone most of the time. That solitude suited him.

His little room was almost invisible behind a pile of broken furniture and other rubbish. In fact, once he had been sitting behind the door, listening as several of Mycroft’s minions searched for him. They gave up just a few steps from his refuge, which made him laugh aloud once they were gone. That was many weeks ago, however, and it had been some time since Sherlock had felt like laughing. His days now ran together in an indistinguishable muddle.

The only person he saw regularly was Wiggins, who for a small gratuity, would deliver whatever illegal substance Sherlock wanted, all the way up to the attic. The downside was that, to Wiggins, time was not a fixed concept. So today, like so many days, Sherlock could only sit and wait, hoping that Wiggins would remember the last words Sherlock had shouted after him as he departed yesterday.

“And tea!”

Honestly, Sherlock felt like shite most of the time these days. The only thing that could distract him from the pain and the nausea and the never-ending pin pricks of _need_ was to lose himself in his own mind, but, of late, even that safe place was letting him down; the palace had become as ramshackle as this house and nothing he did could get all the data organised. Which was terrifying.

It was a relief when he finally heard Wiggins tromping up the stairs, whistling as usual. The man was an idiot.

“Morning, glory,” the idiot said cheerfully as he slipped into the room.

Sherlock only gave a soft growl in response. Wiggins, being a man devoted to business, just tossed him a baggie. “As requested, sire.” Then he held out a battered flask. “Tea. Made it meself.”

Sherlock unscrewed the cap and took a sip of the already cooling liquid. It was dreadful. He took a close look at the little paper tag still dangling from the tea bag. _Tesco Everyday Value._

“Ugh,” he said.

Wiggins only shrugged. “Beggars and all...” He waggled a hand impatiently.

Sherlock dug the last of his money from his shoe and handed it over. Things were looking a bit grim, future wise, he had to admit.

Wiggins pocketed the cash and headed for the door. “No rest for the wicked,” he said and then vanished, still whistling.

Alone once again, Sherlock swallowed more of the truly dreadful tea, while fingering the baggie. Which held what might be his last indulgence, unless he could come up with more money. Sadly, he had almost run out of lies to tell Daddy to obtain the necessary cash[there was no sense in even trying Mummy, who seemed to know what the funds were actually being used for.]

While Wiggins was agreeable, he was not running a charity and would not deliver the product without being paid. At least he hadn’t charged for the miserable tea.

Sherlock rested his head against the wall and realised that he was tired.

Of everything.

Within a few moments, it became clear that Wiggins had not been as diligent as he ought to have been about being observed and followed. Sherlock could hear the heavy footsteps of the British government approaching. No minions this time, although no doubt they were waiting downstairs. 

Sherlock briefly considered ducking back into the eaves, but, in the end, he did not. It seemed a rather significant decision.

Instead, he greeted his brother with as good a sneer as he could muster in the circumstance. It was necessary to appear dismissive to cover the sudden sense of relief he was actually feeling.

It would have been ridiculous to say that a bad cup of tea was the final straw, but perhaps it was and he could live with that.

Although he knew that the time would come, sooner than he hoped, when he would regret it massively, he handed the baggie to Mycroft, knowing his brother would understand. The pompous arse even helped him down all those stairs to the waiting black car.

**

5

They bought far too much food and carried it back to the flat on Baker Street. Sherlock was still explaining how looking at the doorknob was significant when choosing a Chinese restaurant and John was half-listening as he dished up sesame prawns on toast, lemon chicken, sweet and sour pork, satay prawns and special fried rice. The other half of his attention was engaged in trying to understand how the devil he had ended up standing in this kitchen that was more like a mad scientist’s laboratory than a room in which one would prepare food.

As well as to why he felt so comfortable there.

When two plates were filled, they carried them into the sitting room and sat on the sofa. The next couple of minutes were quiet, save for the sounds of chopsticks against china. When the sharpest edge of his appetite was gone, John paused for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied absently, probing at a prawn. “Can you?’

“Prat,” John muttered. “I just want to know if you intend to do that regularly.”

“Be brilliant, you mean? Solve a case that Lestrade and his idiots were befuddled by?”

John gritted his teeth briefly before answering. “Risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

Sherlock paused, apparently giving serious though to the question. Then he shrugged. “Part of the job description.” He glanced at John, frowning. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Well, at the very least, I think it should have been on your list of worst things about a potential flat mate.”

After a moment, Sherlock smiled. “Would it have put you off? Or lured you in?”

John decided not to answer that. Instead, he finished the last few bites of his lemon chicken and then wiped his mouth with the paper serviette. “I need tea,” he announced.

“I might get Hudders to make us some,” Sherlock said.

“If you wake her up at this hour to make us bloody tea you might be putting your life in danger again,” John pointed out, standing. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock replied. “Splash of milk and one sugar, please.”

John sighed and went back into the kitchen. He filled the electric kettle and managed to find a box of Lapsang Souchong in the cupboard. The smokey deep flavour sounded perfect after the Chinese food. He started washing two of the cups on the counter, then paused and called out, “Nothing potentially fatal in these cups, was there?”

“Not as far as I can remember,” was the reply.

Well, that was not entirely reassuring, but John just finished washing the cups and dropped the teabags in just as the kettle boiled. There was just enough milk left in the container to splash into Sherlock’s cup. He wondered for a moment at how familiar it all seemed. As if he had done this all before. As if he were destined to always be making tea and drinking it in the company of that strange man. That fey creature, who seemed to already have woven some kind of spell around him.

If such turned out to be his fate, John thought that he would be perfectly fine with that.

*

It was very quiet in the flat.

John, rather than travelling back to the dreadful hostel, was upstairs in his new bedroom, sleeping between the clean sheets that it turned out Mrs Hudson had put on after dusting and hoovering the room while they were out. 

Sherlock found the idea that Dr Watson was right upstairs oddly satisfying. Who knew that what was lacking in his life was someone who would, without hesitation, kill to save him? Who would be an appreciative audience for his genius? Even more surprising, who could actually spark that genius? He made a mental note to be nice to Stamford the next time he saw him.

He decided to go to his own bed and maybe even sleep. On the way, he picked up the two cups and carried them into the kitchen. Instead of just putting them in the sink as usual, he washed each one, dried them both and set them on the counter next to the box of tea and the sugar bowl. Maybe John would make tea again in the morning.

That would be very good, Sherlock decided. Then he went to bed.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Book of Tea by Kakuzo Okakura


End file.
